


Trust

by lostresidentevilpotter



Series: What If? [9]
Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 07:43:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostresidentevilpotter/pseuds/lostresidentevilpotter
Summary: Al is the only person to survive the plane crash. On top of the crushing guilt of killing all her friends, she has to deal with the strange survivor that finds the wreckage. Al/Isabelle.
Relationships: Althea/Isabelle (Fear the Walking Dead)
Series: What If? [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1456003
Kudos: 25





	Trust

The moment Al’s eyes open, she knows something is seriously wrong. She’s sitting, but not upright. She’s hanging, held in her seat only by her seatbelt. Her head feels heavy, but when she reaches up, she realizes it’s just because the pilot’s headset is still on. She can feel blood drying on the side of her face, but that’s the least of her worries.

She crashed the plane.

It all starts to come back, and Al panics. The impact was bad. They didn’t hit the ground the way Al had intended. There was a problem – well, the engine failure was a problem, but there was something else. They hadn’t crash landed correctly.

Al looks to her right and confirms her worst fears. June is dead, and she sustained enough trauma to the head to ensure she wouldn’t wake back up. That’s probably the only reason Al’s still alive. If she’d died and come back –

Al breathes raggedly and struggles to hail Strand. She comes up with nothing and leaves him a pathetic message, just in case, before she yanks the headset off and frees herself from the cockpit. She pats her jacket to make sure her trench spikes are still there then climbs atop the plane.

Maybe she should consider herself lucky. Enough time has passed that the dead have widely dispersed back into the surrounding forest. That doesn’t sit right with Al – and for good reason. She slides to the ground as quietly as she can and makes her way to the cabin. She has to clamp her hands over her mouth to stifle any sound she might make.

She hasn’t even fully processed June’s death. June, the best friend she has in this world. How is she supposed to accept that everyone else is dead, too?

Unlike June, no one in the cabin has suffered severe head trauma. Luci has a pole protruding from her chest, and she swipes futilely at the air in Al’s direction. Morgan, John, and Alicia are all still strapped into their seats, but they’re all trapped forever.

Al grits her teeth, refuses to let herself cry. It’s her fault, goddamn it. She can’t fathom walking away without at least ending the miserable existence of her friends. She frees one of the trench spikes from her jacket, whispers an apology to each of her friends, and finishes the job.

Al cleans the trench spike off and puts it back in her pocket. Her hands tremble, but it worsens when she wriggles both of John’s revolvers from his belt. They’re both fully loaded, and Al jams them into her waistband. She spots Alicia’s gun barrel on the floor, and she scoops it up and takes it with her as she exits the cabin.

She’s drawn the attention of nearby walkers, but she’s starting to feel woozy. It’s probably the wound in her head. She doesn’t know if it’s a superficial cut or if she hit her head on something or what, but the world’s starting to spin. She tightens her hold on Alicia’s gun barrel, determined not to go down without a fight, but before the first walker even reaches her, it drops.

Four more gunshots follow suit, and walkers hit the dirt. Al locates the direction of the shots, and a figure dressed in all black emerges from the forest. For a moment, Al thinks she’s hallucinating. Even at this distance, Al can tell the person is tall. Really, she’s assuming it’s a person. It’s person-shaped, but its head is concealed by what looks like a motorcycle helmet. The rifle in the person’s arms is modified, a trident bayonet attached to it. The person steadily approaches Al, all business, rifle raised, but Al's legs give out long before the person reaches her.

Al stares up at the sky, lips parted, and she thinks _how could something so horrible happen on such a beautiful day?_

The helmeted person comes into Al’s line of sight. While Al’s brain threatens to shut down on her, the person whips the helmet off and drops it to the ground, quickly raising the rifle again. Al’s eyes land on the prettiest woman she’s seen in a long, _long _time.

“Identify yourself,” the woman demands.

“Wow,” Al breathes.

The woman’s eyebrows pull together. “Did you hear me? Identify yourself. Now.”

“Am I dreaming? I think I’m dreaming,” Al says.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m looking at the prettiest woman I think I’ve ever seen,” Al says dazedly. Tears unexpectedly prick at her eyes, but she manages to hold them back. “So I must be dreaming, right?” she whispers.

The woman pauses, inhaling sharply. “You’re not dreaming,” the woman says. Her eyes flick toward the wrecked plane. “I’m sorry.”

Al swallows hard. “I killed them all. They’re all dead.”

“Do you want to join them?” the woman threatens. She jabs the trident end of the rifle against Al's chest. “Because you will if you don’t tell me who you are and what you’re doing out here.”

“Yes,” Al says. “Yes, I want to join them. Just make it fast.”

The woman stands still for so long, Al starts to think maybe she was never real in the first place. Maybe this really is a hallucination, but now she’s encountered a glitch. But then the woman sighs heavily and slings the rifle across her back.

“Come on,” the woman says. “You’re obviously injured, and the dead will be back soon. I can help you.”

“That’s what we were trying to do,” Al says. “We were trying to help.”

“Looks like you failed,” the woman quips. She holds her hand out. “I’m Isabelle,” she says. “You don’t have to tell me your name, but if you don’t, I’ll just make one up for you.”

“Al,” Al says. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Not yet,” Isabelle warns. “Give me your hand, Al. I’ll get us out of here.”

Al takes Isabelle’s hand, and Isabelle hauls Al to her feet with little difficulty. Al sways, and the only reason she doesn’t fall back to the dirt is because Isabelle swiftly gets Al over her shoulder. Being upside down doesn’t help, but before Al loses consciousness, she says, “You have a nice ass, Isabelle.”

*

When Al comes to, the sun has already set. There’s a lantern on the floor in the middle of the tent, serving as the only source of light. Al instinctively tries to sit up, but someone plants their hand on the center of Al’s chest and harshly shoves her back down.

“Don’t get up,” Isabelle commands. “I’m not done with your head.”

“What?” Al says dumbly. “Who are you?”

“Already forgot my name?” Isabelle says. “I was that memorable, huh?”

Was that…an attempt at a joke? Al blinks, unsure if she should laugh. She’s spared a moment later when Isabelle touches a gauze pad to Al’s forehead, causing a sharp pain to shoot through her skull.

“Ow! Hey!” Al protests.

“Relax,” Isabelle says. “I just finished stitching it shut. Please don’t rip it back open.”

“What happened?”

“You tell me,” Isabelle says. “I saw your plane fall out of the sky.”

Al’s face falls. “Oh, Jesus,” she says. “I killed all my friends.”

Isabelle shrugs. “That’s what it looked like.”

Al swats Isabelle’s hands away from her face and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. When she’s sure she’s got her emotions under control, she lowers them. She scans her surroundings quickly. The tent is fairly spacious, and there’s a sleeping bag beneath her body. There’s a second sleeping bag across from hers, on the other side of the lantern. On the other side, Al spots a backpack and the rifle Isabelle had been carrying earlier. Al’s careful to note, though, that there’s a handgun holstered at Isabelle’s hip, and all of Al’s weapons are piled next to the backpack.

Al quickly analyzes Isabelle. The leather jacket she’d been wearing when they met is not on Isabelle anymore. Al realizes it’s draped over her own torso instead. Isabelle’s ensemble is all black, but up close, it looks less intimidating. Up close, she looks like another normal survivor.

“I didn’t forget your name,” Al blurts.

“Hmm?” Isabelle says, returning her attention to Al.

“I didn’t forget your name,” Al repeats. “I didn’t know where I was for a moment, but I’ve got it now.”

Isabelle smirks. “So you haven’t suffered long term brain damage, I hope. And it’s good to know you didn’t forget my name, considering you think I’m the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen.”

Al splutters, “What?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“I did not say that!”

Isabelle laughs. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you did.”

Al balks. _Sweetheart? _No one calls her _sweetheart_! If anything, Al should be the one flinging that particular pet name around.

“Well, I didn’t mean it,” Al mutters.

“Sure,” Isabelle says. “I believe that.”

“I was out of it!”

“And that’s exactly how I know you weren’t lying,” Isabelle says. “Don’t worry. I think it’s sweet.”

“Oh, shut up,” Al snaps. She hurls Isabelle’s jacket across the tent at her. “Take that back. I don’t need it.”

“You were shivering for a while there,” Isabelle informs. She tosses the jacket with her other belongings.

“I don’t need it.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Isabelle says, holding her hands up in surrender. “If you don’t want it, feel free to show yourself out.”

Al can’t stand, and they both know it. Al huffs and rolls her eyes, but she just climbs into the sleeping back and settles in for the night.

“What are you doing out here?” Al finally asks.

“Passing through,” Isabelle says. “My truck’s parked nearby.”

“Why don’t you just sleep in your truck?” Al asks.

“This is more fun.”

“Isn’t it more dangerous?”

“Only if something finds you,” Isabelle says. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Yes.”

Isabelle presses her lips together. “Normally I don’t sleep in the tent,” she says. “But I needed the space to deal with you. The bed of my truck is full of supplies.”

“Well, thanks for not dumping me in a creek or something,” Al says.

“How could I do that to the woman that thinks I’m the prettiest woman she’s ever seen?”

“You’ll never let that go, will you?” Al grumbles.

Isabelle laughs. “No, never,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

“Yeah, well, I’m straight,” Al says. “So it doesn’t mean anything.”

Isabelle laughs harder. “Nice try,” she says. “You couldn’t even say that with a straight face.”

“What do you mean? This is the straightest face in the history of straight faces.”

Isabelle grins. “What were you in the other world? A comedian?”

Al sighs and gives a shake of her head. “No. I was a journalist.”

Oh, shit. Her camera. It’s only her backup camera, but still. It’s back at the wreckage.

Isabelle hums in acknowledgement. “Are you hungry, Al?”

“No.”

Al feels sick. The kind of sick that accompanies the crushing guilt from killing all your friends.

“You have to eat eventually,” Isabelle says.

“In the morning.”

Isabelle nods then double checks the wound in Al’s forehead. Al allows her to inspect her handiwork, staring up at Isabelle as she studies her stitching.

“This is it, right?” Isabelle asks. “Nothing else hurts? No internal injuries you want to spring on me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Great,” Isabelle says. She sets a water bottle within Al’s reach. “I suggest you try to sleep,” Isabelle says. “I know you’ve been unconscious for the past few hours, but try anyway.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m sleeping,” Isabelle says. “I’m beat.”

Al grins lazily. “You’re not afraid I’m going to kill you in your sleep?”

Isabelle snorts. “You’re gonna kill the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen?”

“Okay, I get it!”

*

Al lies awake for hours. Isabelle had put the lantern out when she finally settled in for the night, so it’s pitch black. Al listens to the sounds of nature around them, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. But it’s not quiet, and Al takes that as a good sign. The wildlife aren’t spooked, which means there are no walkers.

Isabelle sleeps on her stomach with her face turned toward Al. Al’s pretty sure Isabelle’s sleeping with her sidearm stashed under her pillow, though. Whoever she was in the other world, she was prepared for this kind of world.

Al’s only just getting to sleep when Isabelle wakes up, at the crack of dawn. Isabelle simply rolls onto her back and sits up, grunting and pushing her hands through her hair.

“Did you sleep at all?” Isabelle asks.

Al’s eyes pop open. “No,” she says. “But you did just wake me up.”

“Sorry. We need to get moving.”

“We’re safe here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Isabelle says. “Can you stand?”

“Maybe.”

Isabelle nods. “Let’s get you to the truck. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Isabelle gets Al to her feet, and she stays conscious. She’s even capable of walking to the passenger’s side of the pickup truck with minimal assistance from Isabelle. Al waits patiently as Isabelle packs up, and when she climbs into the driver’s seat, she dumps a few things into Al’s lap. First, the trench spikes. John’s revolvers. Alicia’s gun barrel. As Al tucks the trench spikes into her jacket, Isabelle slaps two protein bars onto Al’s thigh.

“Eat those,” Isabelle instructs.

Al doesn’t argue. She carefully sets the revolvers and the barrel on the floor and tears into the first protein bar. Chewing it makes her head ache, but she forces her way through it. At least she’s alive to feel that pain. She could be like half her friends.

“Hey,” Al says. “I need to go back to the wreckage.”

“Why?” Isabelle asks.

“I have shit there that I need.”

Isabelle exhales through her nose but nods. “It’s a ways away,” she admits. “I drove us pretty far.”

“That’s fine,” Al says. “You don’t have a radio, do you?”

“No. Why would I?”

“I need to contact my friends,” Al says. “I mean, my other friends. Not the ones – yeah.”

Isabelle nods and doesn’t push for more information. The rest of the drive is in relative silence. Al stares out the side window until Isabelle pulls the truck off road and parks it.

“This way,” Isabelle says.

Al doesn’t argue. Even though her trench spikes are in her jacket, something compels her to take Alicia’s gun barrel with her. She carefully tucks John’s revolvers beneath the seat, so they’re not within sight, then follows after Isabelle through the forest until they reach the clearing created when the plane fell out of the sky.

The plane comes into view, and Isabelle spears three walkers on the end of the rifle before Al even has the chance to raise the gun barrel.

“Get what you need,” Isabelle instructs. “I’ll hold off the dead.”

*

Al finds her bag dumped a few yards from the plane. She shifts through it, makes sure everything – including her camera – is there. She hauls it over her shoulder, stabs the pointed end of the gun barrel through the eye socket of a walker that tried to creep up on her, and walks back to Isabelle.

“I’m ready,” Al says quietly.

Isabelle nods. “We need to get out of here,” she says. “You’re sure you’ve got everything?”

“Yes.”

“Then come on.”

Isabelle leads them back to the truck, and Al throws her bag in the back. She buckles herself into the passenger’s seat, and they take off. Isabelle drives fast, like she has a reason to leave, and as much as Al wants to ask, she keeps her mouth shut. Instead, Al pulls the visor down and inspects the wound in her forehead. Isabelle did a nice job stitching it shut; in fact, the stitches look like they were professionally done. June probably couldn’t have done much better.

Al swallows as her mind goes to June and gently shuts the visor. She clasps her hands together in her lap and spares a glance to her left. Isabelle’s eyes are trained on the road ahead of them, both hands on the wheel.

“Who are you?” Al blurts.

“What?”

“That gun,” Al says, motioning behind them to where Isabelle’s rifle rests. “Normal people don’t carry weapons like that.”

Isabelle hesitates. “I’m not a normal person,” she admits. “But what I am doesn’t matter.”

“Then what does?”

“I walked away,” Isabelle says. She takes her eyes off the road to meet Al’s gaze. “I’m a normal person now, even if I carry a gun like that.”

Al stares at Isabelle warily. “It seems like you really wanted to get away from the wreckage.”

“A crash like that draws unwanted attention,” Isabelle says flatly. “It’s in our best interest to go far away and never look back.”

“I need to contact my friends.”

Isabelle sighs. “Maybe we’ll pass by a truck stop or something.”

“Keep an eye out. Please.”

Isabelle nods. She pulls the center console open and says, “Find us something to listen to. The silence is driving me crazy.”

*

Al wakes up from a nap when the sun’s beginning to set. She startles, lifting her head from its spot against the window, and blinks the haziness from sleep away. She’s in a truck, but it isn’t moving anymore. Al looks over and finds the driver’s side empty. She unbuckles her seatbelt, grabs Alicia’s barrel, and hops out of the truck. They’re parked on the side of a backroad in the middle of nowhere, and Al spots Isabelle setting up the tent just beyond the trees.

“Need a hand?” Al calls.

“No.”

Al nods to herself and leans back against the truck. She finds a way to hook the gun barrel on her belt and simply waits until Isabelle finishes getting the tent up and walks over to join her.

“How’s your head feeling?” Isabelle asks.

Al dodges Isabelle’s hand as she tries to reach up and touch around the stitching. “It’s fine,” Al says. “But you let me nap all day. How am I supposed to go sleep now?”

Isabelle grins. “You aren’t. That’s the point,” she says. “I’m going to sleep. You’re going to sit up on watch.”

Al doesn’t complain. Isabelle falls asleep before the sun fully sets, and even though Al’s certain that Isabelle sleeps with her handgun beneath her pillow, she doesn’t ask Al to disarm. Al’s pretty sure if she got too close to Isabelle that the other woman would wake up immediately and kill Al before Al got the chance to kill her. Isabelle has been nothing but nice – at least, after they first met at the wreckage – but there’s an aura of danger surrounding her. Something isn’t right.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the wildlife goes quiet. The hair on the back of Al’s neck stands up. It’s quieter than death, and Al slowly sits up. The rustle of her sleeping bag feels too loud, and so does Isabelle’s steady breathing.

Twigs snap somewhere behind the tent, and Al grabs Alicia’s gun barrel.

“Isabelle,” Al hisses. Somehow, she knows better than to touch Isabelle to wake her up. “Isabelle!”

Isabelle stirs. “Hmm?”

“There’s something outside.”

Isabelle sits up, suddenly fully awake. She listens, hearing the same strange silence that Al hears. “Okay,” Isabelle whispers. “Stay here.”

“You can’t go out there alone,” Al argues.

“I’ve got it,” Isabelle insists. Before she can go, Al grabs her wrist and yanks her back. Isabelle stumbles for a moment then fixes Al with a glare. “I said I’ve got it,” Isabelle says through her teeth. She tries to break Al’s grasp on her wrist and fails. “Let go of me or I’ll break your hand,” Isabelle threatens.

“Please don’t go out there alone,” Al says quietly.

Isabelle hesitates, but she still pries Al’s hand off her wrist. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Stay here.”

Isabelle slides into her leather jacket and zips it to her neck. She removes her handgun from beneath her pillow and jams it into its holster at her hip. Al holds Alicia’s gun barrel out as an offering, and Isabelle stares at her for a long moment. Then she takes it and nods her thanks.

“I’ll be right back,” Isabelle says. “Stay here, okay?”

Al gives a curt nod and watches as Isabelle leaves the tent. Al pulls the trench spikes from her jacket and slips out. She spots Isabelle through the darkness, making her way around to the back of the tent where twigs continue to snap. Al sees Isabelle raise the gun barrel to kill the oncoming walker, but Al also sees something Isabelle doesn’t: the second walker dragging itself over. The second walker is missing the lower half of its body, but its jaw still works. As Isabelle shoves the gun barrel through the skull of the first walker, the second walker reaches for her leg.

The first walker goes down, and so does Isabelle. Al tackles her from behind in spite of the risk to herself, preventing the second walker from sinking its teeth into Isabelle’s calf just in time. Al springs back up before Isabelle recovers and kills the second walker with her trench spike.

Everything goes silent again, except for Isabelle’s ragged breathing. Al pockets the trench spike and carefully walks up to Isabelle. She holds out her hand, and Isabelle takes it without hesitation, allowing Al to haul her up. Isabelle, to Al’s surprise, actually looks shaken. She swallows hard and doesn’t release Al’s hand just yet.

“I thought I told you to stay in the tent,” Isabelle breathes.

Al smirks. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Isabelle nods, exhaling shakily. “I guess I’m lucky you don’t know how to listen.”

Al clears her throat and looks down at how their hands are still clasped together. “You can let go of me now,” Al says.

“Right.”

Isabelle lets go. Al steps around her and retrieves the gun barrel. She wipes the blood from it and hooks it on her belt as Isabelle looks on.

“Got a problem?” Al asks. “Or is there another reason you’re staring at me?”

“That’s an interesting choice in weapons is all,” Isabelle says.

Al places her hand protectively over the gun barrel and mutters, “It’s not mine. It’s – it was – my friend’s.”

“Oh.”

Al shakes her head. “I couldn’t leave it,” she admits. “And the two revolvers are my other friend’s. I couldn’t leave those, either.”

“I get it.”

“Do you?”

Isabelle shrugs. “Believe me or don’t believe me.”

They stand there, in complete darkness, staring at each other. Al’s heart beats faster, and she glances around in case there are more walkers. Nope. No more walkers. Just her and Isabelle.

“Let’s go back inside,” Al says. Isabelle motions for Al to go first, and she does. She dumps her weapons back in the corner and gets into her sleeping bag as Isabelle unzips her jacket. Al swears it’s colder than before, and she spends the rest of the night shivering in her sleeping bag.

At least an hour has passed before Isabelle says, “Thanks for saving my life out there.”

Al startles. She’d assumed Isabelle was asleep. Al rolls over to face Isabelle and says, “Yeah, of course. Just returning the favor.” Al pauses and grins across the tent at Isabelle. “I couldn’t let the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen get eaten out there.”

“Oh, shut up,” Isabelle chuckles. “You weren’t in your right mind.”

Al settles onto her back and stares up at the ceiling of the tent. “That’s true,” she admits. “But I wasn’t lying.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“Please,” Al laughs. “Why would I flatter you? What good would it do me?”

“I don’t know,” Isabelle says. “Maybe you’re trying to get into my pants.”

Al laughs, hard, and Isabelle joins in. “Right,” Al says, swiping at a stray tear. “When I said that, I thought I was going to die, but that’s totally what I was thinking about.”

“You never know,” Isabelle argues weakly.

“I mean, it’s getting pretty cold in here,” Al observes.

“Don’t even go there,” Isabelle warns.

Al laughs again and feels genuinely okay for the first time since she crashed the plane. The feeling fades quickly, but it’s nice while it lasts. Al doesn’t fall back to sleep, but neither does Isabelle. They lie in comfortable silence until the sun rises. They pack up the tent and get in Isabelle’s truck for another day of driving.

*

Isabelle shakes Al awake and points up the road. “We’ve got a truck stop coming up,” Isabelle says. “You can radio your friends.”

Al nods. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say to Strand yet. Doesn’t know if she should tell him over the radio that everyone else is dead except for her. The truck stop is crawling with stray walkers that all simultaneously target Isabelle’s truck as they pull up.

“Is your head okay?” Isabelle asks. She throws the truck in park and reaches behind them for the trident rifle.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Al says. “I can help.”

Together, they clear the truck stop of walkers. They don’t speak to each other until the inside is clear. Isabelle fires up the generator, and Al locates the radio. She steels herself, flips it on, and tries to reach Strand.

“Strand, can you hear me?” she says. “It’s Al.”

After what feels like a lifetime of static, Strand says, “Al? Are you there?”

“Yes,” Al says. “I’m here.”

“I got your message,” Strand says. “When I didn’t hear from you again, we assumed the worst. Is Alicia there?”

Al swallows hard. Her hand curls into a fist, and she inhales deeply. “Strand, uh, are you alone?”

After a pause, he answers, “Yeah. What’s up?”

Al closes her eyes but forces herself to say, “Strand, they’re all dead. I’m the only one left. I’m so sorry. The – the impact of the crash – I killed them all, Strand.”

The longest silence yet follows. “You’re sure?” Strand asks quietly.

“Positive.”

“I’m so sorry,” Strand says.

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Al says. Her voice sounds strained to her own ears, and she runs her hand through her hair, resisting the urge to cry. She can feel Isabelle lingering in the doorway behind her. She needs to hold it together. “It’s my fault,” Al adds. “I crashed the goddamn plane. I killed them.”

“It’s not your fault,” Strand says. “You’re no pilot. And I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” Strand asks.

“I – yeah. I’m fine,” Al says. “I – I met someone at the wreckage, so. I’m not out here alone.”

“That’s good,” Strand says quietly. “Are you going to be able to get back?”

“I don’t know,” Al admits. “I don’t know if I should come back, if I’m honest.”

“I understand,” Strand says. “Sarah, Wendell, and Charlie might not understand, but I do.”

“Thanks,” Al says.

“I should go,” Strand says. “I should fill everyone else in.”

“I’ll try to call later, okay?”

“Yes,” Strand says. “Take care of yourself, Al.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They sign off, but Al stays seated at the desk. She puts her head in her hands, trying to will her body not to shake. She hears soft footsteps behind her, but Al doesn’t look up. Her body tenses as Isabelle’s hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes gently. Isabelle doesn’t have any words, and Al’s grateful that Isabelle doesn’t try to say anything.

“We can stay here tonight,” Isabelle offers. “If you want me to stay.”

Al nods. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Let’s stay.”

*

They set the sleeping bags up on the floor of the truck stop and secure all the entrances before settling in. Al already knows it’s going to be another sleepless night for her. After Strand broke the news to Sarah, Wendell, and Charlie, Charlie had radioed Al to ask about Alicia. Charlie hadn’t been able to contain her tears, forcing Al to struggle to keep herself together. She managed at least until she signed off.

Now, in the darkness, Al relives the crash in its entirety.

She remembers, first, Morgan convincing them all of the necessity to fly. She remembers the hours she spent with Strand trying to repair the damn plane in the first place. She remembers Charlie bringing her and Strand water as they worked as an excuse to stick around and watch them fix the plane. She remembers Alicia arguing with Morgan the night before, trying to convince him not to do this.

She remembers Strand leaving the cockpit to clear the dead from the runway, remembers June taking his place. Remembers the engine failing, the plane falling.

She remembers waking up and finding everyone dead.

“Al, wake up!” Isabelle shouts. Her hands grasp at Al’s shoulders even as Al’s eyes pop open. Al instinctively reaches up and grabs onto the front of Isabelle’s shirt, breathing heavily. “It’s okay,” Isabelle says. “You were dreaming.”

“I wasn’t,” Al says. “I crashed the plane.”

“I know,” Isabelle says softly. She pulls back, but Al sits up, refusing to release Isabelle’s shirt yet. “It’s not your fault,” Isabelle says. She breaks Al’s grasp on her shirt and holds Al’s hands in her own. “It isn’t your fault, okay?”

Al nods and blinks until the stinging in her eyes goes away. She stares at Isabelle with her lips parted as she tries to think of something to say, but once again, there’s nothing to say. Their eyes lock, and Al’s breath hitches in her throat. Al wets her lips with the tip of her tongue.

“You really are the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen,” Al murmurs.

A smile flickers on Isabelle’s face. Before she can reply, Al leans in enough to close most of the distance between them, stopping just short to give Isabelle time to pull away. But she doesn’t. Isabelle pushes her hand into Al’s hair and pulls her in, bringing their lips together before Isabelle lies back and pulls Al with her. Isabelle locks her legs around Al’s waist and flips them over. Al doesn’t object, just grabs a fistful of Isabelle’s shirt and works on yanking it over her head. Isabelle’s fingers fumble with the buttons on Al’s shirt while Al’s already fumbling with Isabelle’s belt buckle.

They have all the time in the world, but somehow it’s not enough. They rush like they’re going to die any second – and maybe they are. The plane crashed in less than five minutes, and everyone except Al died. Why shouldn’t she get as many orgasms in as fast as possible?

Al can’t help but wonder if Isabelle’s reasoning is the same as her own.

*

Al wakes up sometime late in the morning, surprised she wasn’t woken sooner. She realizes why – Isabelle’s still asleep, tucked beneath Al’s arm, head resting on Al’s bare chest. Al rubs at her eyes with her free hand, exhaling quietly. It’s been a long time since she’s had a warm body sleeping next to her – the last time was definitely before the dead started walking.

Al’s afraid to disturb Isabelle, afraid Isabelle will wake up and decide it’s time for them to split off. Al doesn’t know how to make it back to the factory from here; she isn’t sure she should go back. Isabelle’s all she’s got now.

Isabelle wakes up on her own eventually. She seems confused at first, pressing her palm flat against Al’s stomach as she lifts her head from Al’s chest, eyebrows pulled together.

“What –?” Isabelle starts, but she cuts herself off when her eyes land on Al’s face. “Oh, right,” Isabelle says.

“I was that memorable, huh?” Al teases.

“I forgot where I was,” Isabelle admits. “And I thought I was dreaming, honestly.”

Al laughs, and Isabelle grins. Isabelle brushes her knuckles against Al’s cheek, smiling long after Al’s laughter dies off.

“Where are my clothes?” Al asks. “It’s freezing in here.”

“I can fix that.”

Al laughs again and happily kisses Isabelle back when she leans down. “Maybe we should go,” Al says uneasily. “If we stay here too long, we’ll start drawing attention.”

Isabelle nods and pushes herself up. She seeks out her clothes without shame and tosses Al’s clothing her way. “Do you want to call your friends again?” Isabelle asks.

Al hesitates. “No,” she says. “I don’t think – I think that’s a bad idea.”

Isabelle nods again. “I get it.” She pauses to pull her shirt over her head then runs her fingers through her hair. “What are you looking for, Al?”

“What?”

“A fresh start?”

Al purses her lips and buttons her pants. “Maybe,” she says.

“I might be able to help you with that, if you want.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen before you get that I want you to stick around?” Al says.

Isabelle grins. “I like hearing it,” she says. She motions toward the door. “Come on. I have an idea of where we can go.”

Isabelle holds her arm out, and Al steps beneath it easily, wrapping her own arm around Isabelle’s waist. They step into the crisp morning air, and Al inhales deeply.

“You alright?” Isabelle asks.

“Yeah,” Al says. “As alright as I can get, I guess.”

Isabelle presses her lips to Al’s jaw and opens the door for her. “It gets better,” Isabelle says. “Trust me.”

“I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bouncing around a few other ideas for fics, so hopefully I'll have more to post soon! Hope you enjoyed this little Al/Isabelle story. As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and I'll respond as quickly as possible!


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